CHAPTER XX.

IN THE _INCROYABLE_ DRAWING-ROOM.

He called together the servants and a few faithful friends, and having made all the necessary arrangements he withdrew to the end of the house nearest to his own room. He felt he must be alone. In the midst of his regrets he felt a certain satisfaction in having fulfilled his duty to his wife to the last hour of her life. He ordered his servant on no account to allow any one to disturb him, and he locked himself in the _Incroyable_ drawing-room.

At last he could enjoy the solitude he longed for; he could think over the course of events, his own position and the state of his mind; he cast a glance at the past, and another at the future.

The painful struggle which he had carried on for so long with an ideal differing from his own was now over. He was free. But his freedom was tainted with sorrow, for it had been granted him by death; and he had been released from his fetters by a beautiful and melancholy being, whom he could by no means hate but only pity and respect. The obstacle that death had removed, and which dwelt not merely in his memory but in his heart, had won his tender sympathy by the mere fact of her pathetic end. It lent her the halo of innocence, and the radiance of an angel.

Still dwell as he might on this image--an interesting and touching one if not actually beloved--he could not help feeling an impulse of happiness. The future was before him. A door stood open--the door to a new life, where perhaps he might find the realisation of the dream he had indulged in so vainly in the past life which was now buried in a peaceful grave. The sense of recent loss made him afraid to contemplate the future and kept his fancy so far chastened that he did not rush into visions of rapturous days nor build castles in the air, either in the sunny regions of the probable, or the darker chaos of the purely imaginary. It was with real pain that he felt the homage of pious respect to the past chequered by visions of the future. But hope, like remorse, is so inevitably a part of the logic of events that it can be considered part and parcel of our conscience. We cannot lock the door on remorse when that intruder knocks and insists on admittance; and in the same way, we cannot turn away hope when it comes, walks in, calls us, invades us, takes possession, settles itself deliberately, and unrolls the enchanting panorama of happiness to come. No wilful blindness will avail to prevent our gazing on the horizon of life which is lighted up by hope; nay, there is not a moment, however painful, which is not linked with those hoped-for moments still remaining in store in the unknown future. Life is a constant anticipation of something remote and before us; indeed, nature herself has understood this law, for none of the superior creatures have eyes behind them.

Thus he sat debating and suffering, not choosing to let his thoughts wander whither they inevitably tended, and taking a morbid pleasure in trying to relink his broken chain. He felt a certain pride in setting aside every thought of his own advantage, however legitimate, and tried to force his fancy to a dignified indifference to the more pleasing aspect of the events of the night. But though the spirit has wondrous sails that bear it onward, and without which it could make no way, it no less needs that ballast which is called egoism. Egoism is indispensable; without it the sails would flap idly, and man would be the toy of the hurricane. With it, and bereft of sails, he would be no better than a hulk. The perfect vessel is one in which the sails and the ballast are rightly proportioned.

As he reflected thus, Leon Roch made up his mind that he could not be a hulk. Nay--he had just flung all his ballast overboard to sail, as swift as lightning, over the waters of a bright ideal when he heard a noise--a sound that made him thrill as the rope of the topmast vibrates before a rising storm--the rustle of a woman’s dress and the murmur of a sigh. He looked up and Pepa Fúcar stood before him.

Her aspect startled him, he could not ask her any questions. Her face was like that of a corpse that has risen from the grave in sheer terror of death. Her teeth chattered as though she were cold. Tragedy itself looked out of her eyes; in her hand she held a paper.

With a great effort Leon said:

“For God’s sake leave me in peace--my poor wife is dead.”

“And I ...” but she could not speak; she was trembling, as though the chill of the grave had fallen on her. At last she finished her sentence:

“I came, some time since, to tell you that my husband is alive.”

Leon sat as if he had not heard; it was his conscience which cried out:

“Your husband!”

“Is alive.”

She put her hand to her head, feeling as if all the blood in her body were surging there.

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes, and I should have died of fear if it had not been that you are here to protect me against that ruffian!”

These words roused Leon from a sort of stupor.

“I--what have I to do with it?” he exclaimed as though trying to fight his way out of this terrible nightmare by some hypocrisy of dignity. “Leave me. Have I anything to do with your husband--or with you either?”

In his soul a storm was raging which he was trying to quell by decency, honour--walls of sand which broke down at a touch. His brain was in a whirl, and conscious of no desire but that he could hate instead of loving her, he ordered Pepa to leave the room. Giving way to an impulse--whether of disgust or of honour he hardly knew, he said:

“Leave me--I desire you to leave me. Do not disturb me. I do not want you. I cast you from me--I turn you out....”

“You are not in your right mind,” said Pepa sadly, “you can turn me out of the room--but not out of your heart.”

“Did you come here to mock me?” he went on wildly, “when I most deserve your respect.... What you have told me is a lie.”

“Ah! would to God it were!” said the poor woman clasping her hands. “My father told me the dreadful news this morning; but I did not think he would dare to appear before me. But this evening, I was sitting in my room, and I heard a noise in the garden--I went to the window--I saw a man--it was he. The light from the hall lamp fell on his hated face--I saw him and knew him. I thought the earth would open and swallow me--I was shivering with cold and fear. I could not help running--running all over the house, and fancying I heard him close behind me and felt his hand on my shoulder. I rushed out of the back door--if there had been no door I must have jumped out of the window. I went into the yard--I could not stop--out into the street. There I took a hackney carriage and flew here to tell you. I waited a long time in the museum; then I was out of patience....”

“And the child?”

“She is not at home. I should have brought her with me if she had been; but Papa had taken her this evening to see Countess Vera. I had intended to go too--but I knew what was going on here and I could not bear to go into company; I said I was not well enough.”

“And what a time for coming here!” exclaimed Leon bitterly. “You cannot even comfort me.”

“Why, what do you object to in my presence?”

“It is a profanation, a scandal! I have no words for it; it fills me with a horror that I cannot overcome.”

“I am not to blame for what has happened.--It is God’s will and ordering.--But do not let us lose time in lamentations; let us consider, let us decide what we are to do.”

“Who?”

“We--you and I.--Will you abandon me to my fate in this unequal struggle? Do you know what that wretch means to do?--My father told me all about it. He has been two days in Madrid staying in his uncle’s house on purpose to spy me and watch me.--I do not know who can have told him, his uncles I suppose. Gustavo is his lawyer, and he is going to bring a charge against me.--And the base wretch could write to my father this morning, declaring that he had repented of all his wickedness, and imploring his forgiveness.--Inside that letter there was a note for me. Read it.”

Leon’s first impulse was to refuse to look at the letter; but he snatched it out of Pepa’s hand, he knew not how or why; and read as follows:

“A man who is dead has no right to expect fidelity in the wife who survives him. Happily for me, the Almighty saw fit to save my precious life. As the moment draws near when I may hope to embrace my wife and child, I have the honour of informing the first of those beloved beings that I have made up my mind to forgive her, provided she hastens to submit to my authority as a husband, seeing that my supposed departure from this world is some excuse for her delinquency. At the same time if the above-mentioned beloved being persists in believing that I am still food for the fish in the Gulf of Mexico, I hereby take the liberty of assuring her that I shall avail myself of the rights granted to me by law. My dear daughter cannot be allowed to grow up in the lap of such a mother. I am sure that the lady whose husband I have the honour to be will not prefer the delights of a criminal attachment to the sweet duties of motherhood--but, if she should, I shall bring an action in due form, having an abundance of witnesses who can prove the preliminary information required by law, and I shall claim my daughter, since the law will place her in my paternal care as soon as she is three years old.

“In order that my estimable wife may fully appreciate the strength of my position as an injured husband, I would beg her to spend an hour in her father’s library, and there, in the third book-case, on the second shelf, she will find the last edition of the code, in which interesting work I would advise her to study Act 20, cap. I, clause II.

“F. Cimarra.”

“That is the man, all over!” exclaimed Leon crumpling up the paper. “His style, his insolence, his mean irony, his absolute lack of decency and feeling. I know the hand that strikes me--God in Heaven! If such an attack, from such a villain, is not enough to justify a man in trampling on all law and custom, in forgetting his dignity nay, and his conscience--if this is not an excuse for rebellion and fury, I do not want to live!--life is not worth having!” He flung the paper on the floor and Pepa set her foot on it.

“And I will do the same to you, vile wretch, and your latest Code!” she exclaimed. Then she dropped on the sofa and bursting into tears she went on:

“And to think of my baby, my little Monina in the hands of that ruffian. Monina, who is my only joy, snatched away from you and me! The mere thought of such a thing drives me mad.”

Leon looked at the floor with stern determination.

“A bold stroke on my part may save us yet,” said Pepa, looking up with a resolute flash.

“Hush--wait--” said Leon anxiously putting up his hand. “Listen.”

They were silent, holding their breath even.

And they heard in the corridor the slow solemn steps of many men carrying some heavy burden. The sound came nearer, passed, and died away. Pepa and Leon each in the attitude of holding the other back, listened in reverent silence to the procession that passed so near to them. Their beating hearts seemed to throb in unison. When silence had once more fallen on the house Leon looked at Pepa who had bent her head and whose eyes were full of tears.

“Are you praying?” he said.

“Oh! God!” exclaimed Pepa clasping her hands over her heart. “She is at peace,--I am tortured with grief and anxiety; she is enjoying eternal bliss as the reward of her virtues, and I am pointed at as a guilty creature, threatened with persecution, and my wretched heart is to be made the sport of the tricks of the law.--No, merciful Lord! I never prayed that she might die in order that I might triumph and be happy--that I never asked. I was not so wicked, and I do not deserve such punishment.--I hated her sometimes it is true, but not now, not now. I do not know whether I am afraid of her now, or whether it is only reverence that keeps her always in my thoughts--I see her before me wherever I turn, dead, and yet living.”

“She is happy!” said Leon in dull tones.

“But we have no time to be melancholy. We must decide, and act at once. Listen, I have a plan; the best, the only plan....”

“A plan.”

“Yes, I will tell you. First I must fetch my child. I feel as if they wanted to take her from me, as if you and she and I were in danger....”

“Fetch her now, at once.”

“It is only ten o’clock. There is time to go and return quickly. I have spoken to Lorenzo, our best coachman, and the carriage is waiting. Will you promise to wait here till I return?”

“Yes, I promise,” said Leon looking at her but beyond her. “Fly and fetch Monina; bring her quickly; I too am afraid....”

“Till then do not stir from hence....”

She went away through the museum.

Leon for a long time could not restore order in his mind. Before deciding on any definite course of action it was necessary to form a clear idea of the situation in its true aspect and proportions, without regarding it as better or as worse than it really was. But in spite of every effort he could not think with any kind of lucidity; all mental discipline was lost to him. His utter physical exhaustion and the moral chaos that had come upon him had resulted in a sort of lethargy, in which his brain was lulled to sleep while his senses ran riot in feverish disorder. We have once before seen him in a similar mood.

The room seemed to assume a circular shape, for his eyes were incapable of taking exact note of what they saw, and the walls spun round him and with them in a giddy whirl the objects that adorned them. These were for the most part engravings, plates, jars, medals and plaster reliefs of the time of the French _Directoire_, when a revolution in taste took place as a trivial corollary to the revolution in politics. After cutting off heads the mania for innovation set to work to reform hats. Industry had no mind to retire in favour of liberty, and on the top of the mound of skulls piled up during the reign of terror, it stuck a dress-maker’s doll.

There were men tightly buttoned into impossible coats, choked in yards of neck-cloth, and crowned with incredible hats. Some carried knotted sticks, others twisted canes; they were curled like the Furies and shod like dancing-masters. Some had huge chains with seals like bell-clappers hanging from their pockets; in some it was difficult to distinguish their legs from their skirts, or where the man ended and his clothes began. They looked like objects in a nightmare, chimeras, the distorted metamorphosis of human beings into long-legged wading birds with glasses on their bills and buskins on their feet. The women displayed more than their ankles in tightly-drawn stockings, and on their heads wore towers of felt, fur and feathers, buckram, and ribbands; mounds, weather-cocks, pagodas, spires or tubs. If a crowd of witches had set up for being fashionable they might have appeared in such a guise.

All these figures seemed to be flying in a mad race round the room. They were a motley rabble, a whirling tornado of cudgels, legs, noses, eyeglasses, petticoats, fans and hats, whence proceeded whistling, shouts, scoffing and laughter. All humanity rammed into a cannon as large as the world, and fired off into the air in a million fragments, could not have covered the sky with a more hideous cloud.

Leon saw a figure step out of the circle and come towards him, and he suddenly felt an impulse of rage, just like that which he had felt in the morning against his brother-in-law--a rage which now no consideration of respect interfered to quell. The hateful figure that approached him was the most grotesquely monstrous of all that crazy rout; his mean smile was an insult to human reason, to decency, to virtue, to everything that distinguishes man from brutes.

“Horrible wretch!” Leon cried--or fancied he cried, rushing upon him, and seizing him by the collar. “Do you think I am afraid of you? Why do you take her from me? Yours! do you say she is yours? But I will give you a lesson and rid society of your vile presence....”

He clutched his victim with all his strength, saying:

“You have rights? I trample them under foot. You have ties? I break them. You shall soon see what I care for your rights and ties--no more than for your life, which is full of evil and disgrace. I loathe you as the embodiment of all the wickedness on earth.--Respect you? Respect the law, the sacrament which you represent as I respected them in her who is no longer of this world?--How dare you name her in the same breath with yourself? In her I respected the austerity of virtue, of exalted piety, honour, innocence, weakness and beauty. But what is there in you but corruption, lies and foulest vice?--It is in vain for you to crave my pity: pity was not made to bestow on venomous reptiles. Do not ask me to let you have your child.--Shall an angel be thrown to the dogs?--Your child loathes you, your wife hates you, I--I will murder you!”

He felt as though he were rolling down a precipice in the dark, with his victim in his grasp. Then he unconsciously sank into a troubled slumber that lasted some time. He woke in a calmer frame of mind; though still confused, he could make out surrounding objects, and by degrees saw them more distinctly. The figures on the walls were in their places, as insolently lifelike as ever, not more hideous or more pleasing than of old. Leon heard not a sound; everything was still. He looked at his watch; it was half-past eleven.

His first clear idea was that he must at once quit the house and go to his own home.

He thought of María dead, and of Pepa living,--he saw them as though they had been standing side by side in front of him; and at the same moment, as if his thought had evoked her presence, Pepa came into the room from the museum with Monina in her arms.