CHAPTER VI

_Édith aux longs cheveux--Catherine Howard_

Here is the story of _Édith aux longs cheveux_; you will meet her again under another name, clad in another garb and, instead of moving along in five acts, dragging behind her a tail of eight scenes.

A young girl who has been deserted lives in a sort of Eden surrounded by green shade, singing birds and flowers; a river flows, encroaching on one corner of her garden, as on the Arno or the Canal de la Brenta, and beautiful young people pass by on it who make her dream of love, and beautiful noblemen who make her dream ambitious dreams.

One of these noblemen notices her, and stops before the graceful apparition, penetrates into what he believes is a fairy palace and finds a young maiden, who looks as though she were the sister of the birds and the flowers which surround her; like them, she sings; like them, she is white and rosy and sweet scented. He falls in love with Edith. But Edith cares for nothing but the court and balls and fêtes and royal pomp. Ethelwood is the king's favourite; and, meantime, she allows herself to be loved by Ethelwood. Edith is one of those women who are as white as marble and as cold at heart as marble; she is like the statue of an ancient courtesan, dug up from the ruins of Pompeii, which is touched to life by the daylight and sunshine. She is alive, but that is all; it is useless to expect love from her. It is very seldom I created such characters in my books or dramas as this, but I had an example before me at the time. That example lured me on; there is always a little of the outside material world in the ideal inner world of the artist. She tells Ethelwood that she loves him, but she does not; for, behind Ethelwood, she looks towards the king. The king has also seen her; it is fated that certain women cannot be seen without being loved. The king sees Edith and loves her. But who is she and how is she to be approached? The king knows nothing about it; he needs ministers to help him to his love, as he needs them in his kingdom; and if Ethelwood helps him to support half his power, Ethelwood will also help him to carry the weight of his love. That which Ethelwood dreaded happens: the king falls in love with the same woman that he does. This woman is his very life; he wishes to keep her from the king at no matter what price. On the following day he has to visit Edith with the king. He has the night before him and on his side--night, the faithful ally of lovers, we must also add the capricious friend, for she betrays almost as often as she serves! He sets off; in two hours' time he is with Edith. He presses into her hand a flask filled with the potent drug which only exists on the stage and is only to be found among Shakespeare's alchemists. When the lover sees her, beautiful and young and almost loving for the first time--for she is thinking of the king, whilst fondling Ethelwood--he hesitates even to put this masterpiece of creation to sleep. Sleep, said the ancients, is brother to Death. But suppose the sister be jealous of the brother and pluck the soul of that beautiful child, like a flower from a tomb, during her sleep! A ballad Edith sings about a vassal espoused by a king decides him; the narcotic is poured into the maiden's glass; she has hardly drunk it before a deadly stupor spreads over her; she feels herself growing numb; she cries out, calls, instinctively pushes Ethelwood from her and falls asleep in despair thinking she is dying. He returns to the palace; next day, when he returned with the king they find Edith dead. She is laid in a vault; the king and Ethelwood go down into it and the king kneels. Ethelwood remains standing with his hand on the girl's heart, fearing that life has disappeared and is turned into death. He feels a slight throbbing in her veins and thinks the icy marble is gradually becoming warmer. What will happen if Edith wakes? He makes a pretext of the king's grief and drags him away, just as Edith's heart is beginning to flutter beneath his hand. Edith is left alone and wakes like Juliet; but, when Juliet awakens, she finds Romeo waiting for her. Edith is alone with the dead, with all the terrors and superstitions of the young girl: she cries and calls and shakes the door of the vault; it opens and Ethelwood appears. For the first time she flings herself into his arms with the effusion of gratitude. It is not a king bringing her a crown, but something much greater and more precious, a far more providential gift: a saviour who brings her life. For some moments she loves him with the whole strength of the life which she thought she had lost. Her expression is so open and true and spontaneous that she deceives the poor lover. He thinks he is beloved and tells her everything. The king has seen her and is in love with her. Then, for the benefit of the audience only, under the guise of the loving girl, one of the characteristics of the ambitious woman begins to reveal itself. Ethelwood confesses his ruse to Edith: he tells her how he made her take a drug to put her to sleep; he discloses to her what he had hidden from her until now, that he is one of the highest nobles in the State; but this no longer satisfies Edith! He tells her that, during her sleep, the king came down into her vault, and prayed on his knees by the side of the adored body which he took for a corpse; and that he, Ethelwood, a prey to the anguish of despair, awaited, dagger in hand, for the first movement of Edith and the first sigh from the king to stab the latter.

In the midst of the poor fool's story, Edith follows her own train of thought only. The king loves her! Why not be the king's wife rather than that of the king's favourite?... Did not the king put his ring of betrothal on her finger?... A ring--it is a crown in miniature! Meantime, Edith must be got out of the tomb, which weighs heavily on her, and take advantage of the night to reach Ethelwood's château. Ethelwood will go and explore the surroundings and then, if the road be deserted, he will return and fetch Edith. Edith is left alone for a moment and makes use of the time to search for traces of the king's footsteps on the damp flagstones, and the marks of his hand on the cold marble. In that brief moment she discloses her heart and the abyss of ambition which has swallowed up all her love.

Ethelwood returns to fetch her. It is almost with regret that she leaves the vault where a king has kissed her brow and passed a ring on her finger. The next act is in the count's château. Edith seems happy. Ethelwood is happy. The arrival of the king is announced. What has he to do at the count's home? Edith would know why; obliged to hide herself from being seen by the king, she does it in such a way as not to lose a word he says to the count.

The king is profoundly sad. Like all wounded hearts, he seeks for conflict; the war with France affords a diversion for his grief; he will go on the Continent. But he wants a firm and trustworthy regent for his State during his absence; he has thought of Ethelwood, who shall be the regent, and, to reward him for his devotion, and, still more, to attach him to the interests of the kingdom, sure as he is of his loyalty, he will give him his sister in marriage.

Ethelwood tries to refuse this twofold honour; he objects that Princess Eleanor--I think she was called Eleanor; I am not very certain, but the name of the princess does not affect the matter: in theatrical slang the princess would be called la princesse _Bouche Trou_ (_i.e._ a stop-gap princess)--the Princess Eleanor does not love him. Ethelwood is mistaken, the princess does love him. He refuses everything. This refusal at first surprises, then annoys, the king.... A quarrel springs up between subject and king. The subject puts his hand on his sword hilt. Henceforth, he will incur confiscation, degradation, death on the scaffold; he will become poor, renounce his rank, will brave death, but he will marry no other woman than Edith. The king goes away, forbidding him to follow: but Ethelwood is the king's host; he must conduct him to his château gates; he must hold his stirrup and give his knee for the king to mount his horse. Scarcely has the king gone out and the count disappeared behind him, than a thick tapestry is raised and Edith enters on the scene. She has seen nothing save that the king is young and beautiful; heard nothing but that he loves her. Ethelwood's devotion, his refusal to marry the king's sister, the danger he is incurring, all glide over her heart like a breath on a mirror. She goes to the window. Ethelwood is on his knees holding the king's stirrup. In the office which, where nobility of spirit is present, is regarded as an honour, Edith sees nothing but shame; and, looking at the king, covered with gold and precious stones, surrounded with the homage of a people, as in a purple mantle, grown great by the lowliness of all who are around him, she lets fall the whisper, "If only I could be queen!..." At this moment Ethelwood returns. He makes up his mind, Edith shall know him as he is. He asks for pen, paper and ink. He is going to write his will.

"Are you going to die then?" asks Edith.

"No; but I am going to make you a return for all you have done for me. I only poured you out half the liquid contained in the flask; the rest was for myself, in case it had turned out to be a poison instead of a narcotic."

"Well?"

"I have drunk the rest of that liquid from the flask."

Edith grows pale; she begins to understand. The parchment upon which Ethelwood has rapidly traced a few lines will tell to every one that the count has taken refuge from the king's anger in death. As Edith lay in her grave, Ethelwood will be laid in his; and, as he watched over her, she, in her turn, shall watch by him; as he had the key of death, she shall have the key of life. Edith fights against this idea; she measures her own weakness, urges her ambition, but too late: Ethelwood, when he left the king, had taken the narcotic. He totters, pales, falls into Edith's arms as he puts the key of the vault into her hand saying--

"Till to-morrow!"

Next day, instead of opening the gates of life to her lover, Edith takes the king her betrothal ring. The king at first thinks she is the ghost of the woman whom he loved; then, by degrees, he is satisfied; he joyously touches the warm and living hand which he had touched when it was dead and cold; he renews to the Edith full of life the offers he had made to the Edith asleep in the tomb. The young girl turns giddy and needs to recollect all her promised ambitions. The key of the vault where her lover lies burns like red-hot iron. She goes to the window and asks if the river which flows at the foot of the palace is very deep.

"It is a gulf which swallows up all that is thrown into it."

Edith turns her head aside, and with a smothered cry lets the key fall into it, saying--

"Que pour l'éternité. L'abime l'engloutisse, ou le courant l'entraîne!

LE ROI.

Que faites-vous, Édith?

ÉDITH.

Moi, rien ... je me fais reine!"

I had pondered over this subject for two years, and had worked for something like three to four months at the plan of this fine work. I was reasonably well satisfied with it, not because of its merit, but on account of the trouble it had cost me: in other words, I believed I had achieved a masterpiece. So, for the first time in my life--and also for the last--I invited two or three friends to come to hear the reading of it which I had to give before the Théâtre-Français. I had a splendid audience. My delusion lasted to the end of the first act; but I must say it went no further. At the end of that act, I already felt that my _chef d'œuvre_ had not caught on with the public. By the second act, it was still colder. By the third, it was frigid! One of the greatest punishments that can be imposed on an author, in expiation of his plays, is to read before a committee that has come with benevolent intentions, and to feel these intentions little by little fading away, turning yellow, falling at the breath of boredom, as autumn leaves fall under the killing winds of winter. Ah! what would one not give, at such a moment, not to have to go on to the finish, but to roll up one's manuscript, make one's bow and depart! But no such fate! In spite of the service the author would render to his audience, he is condemned to read and the audience to hear. He must go to the very end! He must descend the staircase of this tomb step by step, colder than the staircase of death itself! This was, I repeat, the first time the thing had happened to me; a just punishment for my pride. I rose immediately after the last hemistich and went out, leaving _Édith aux longs cheveux_ on the committee table. I felt that, this time, it was not a narcotic she had taken, like Juliet, but a fine, good poison she had swallowed, like Romeo. However, I had not the courage to go away without an answer. So I waited for it in the manager's office. It was Mademoiselle Mars herself who brought it me. Poor Mademoiselle Mars! She wore a funereal expression; one would have said that she had returned from Ethelwood's obsequies, after having the day before been at those of Edith. She beat about the bush in all sorts of ways to break it to me that the committee did not think my play was suitable for acting. According to her, the play was only half written, "What became of Edith after she had flung the key into the abyss? What became of Ethelwood, enclosed in the vault? What became of the king's sister, who was enamoured of this living dead man? Was it possible that Providence could look on at such a crime without interfering? That divine justice could hear of such a grievance and find no true bill? There must be a sequel to be joined to such a beginning, a second part to attach to this first. Was there no way of turning the sister of the king to account? Could she not represent faithfulness, as Edith represented ingratitude? Could she not descend into the vault to see her dead lover as the king had done to see his dead fiancée? Could not that happen to the sister which had nearly happened in the king's case and Ethelwood?..."

I took hold of Mademoiselle Mars's hand.

"The play is saved," I said to her; "it shall be called _Catherine Howard._ Thanks to you, I perceive the ending.... Where are my friends that I may announce the good news to them?"

But my friends were far away. They found a disused door by which they could make sure of fleeing without meeting me. Next day I received a letter from the secretary of the Comédie-Française, which invited me to take away the manuscript. "Fling it into the fire!" I replied. I do not know whether he obeyed my instructions; but I know I never saw it again and the only verses which I remember are the two and a half I have quoted--

"On les immola tous, sire:--ils étaient trois mille!"

And that was how the beautiful _Édith aux longs cheveux_ was buried.

We will tell in due order and place how there came into existence her sister, _Catherine Howard,_ who was not worth much more than she was, and who died in the flower of her age, in the year of grace 1834.