CHAPTER XXVII

DETACHED THOUGHTS

Iris had penned the following passages with a hand apparently faltering and agitated, as if the ideas had come hastily, confusedly, and irregularly, into the head of the princess:--

"I have seen him again at the Théâtre Française! All my griefs, all my regrets were awakened at the sight of him.

"He will then pursue me every where. I never experienced such violent emotion: to be compelled to conceal all from the penetrating eyes of the world--from the indifferent glances of my husband. Is it hatred, indignation, or anger, which have thus disturbed me?

"Yes, hatred, indignation, and anger, are the feelings I must feel for the man who killed my betrothed, him to whom I was plighted, and whom from my infancy I loved! Ought I not to execrate him who has dishonoured me by such infamous calumny? Oh, yes, I hate him!--I hate him!--and yet......"

Here followed some words absolutely illegible, ending this first passage, and which furnished De Brévannes with a text for a world of conjectures.

These words, "_and yet_" seemed to him a token of happy augury. He continued,--

"I was so overcome by my recent reflections that I durst not continue or trust to paper--alas! my sole confidant--the cause of my alarm.

"I must reveal my shame. What an abyss is the human mind! how full of contradictions! Oh! no, no; I hate this man! There is, in the obstinacy with which he has pursued his design, something infernal; and if what I experience towards him be not hatred, it is a vague fear which mingles with this hate. Yes, it is that, no doubt. And, then, if there be united with these a kind of regret at seeing a will so firm, a pertinacity so great, employed in doing ill--in injuring--calumniating......

"Had he devoted himself to noble designs, what glorious results might he not have realised!

"Yes, I am alarmed when I reflect on the skill with which he formerly contrived to introduce himself to us--to render himself indispensable to our interests. With what impenetrable dissimulation did he conceal his love for me--only once referring to it; and with what indignation did I receive his avowal!

"Ought I not to believe, although he assured me of the contrary, that his attentions to my aunt were serious? Could I be deceived? Have I deceived myself in this respect?

"The abominable calumny of which I have been the victim has not even enlightened me as to the truth. Poor aunt! how many chagrins has she unconsciously caused me!

"It was only wanting for this man to have placed his love, his passionate devotion, fittingly. No doubt he would have loved a woman whose heart was free with intense devotion; but wherefore has he loved me--me? Was I not plighted to Raphael? Had he not frequently heard me allude to our approaching union? And after a first and last avowal, he had recourse to the most infamous calumny to dishonour her to whom once, and but once only, he had spoken of love.

"It seems to me that I am comforted in thus pouring out my most painful thoughts. Yes, it enables me to read my heart more closely.

"Alas! I was already so wretched, had I need of any increase of sorrow's? Oh! accursed be thou who hast driven me into a marriage without love, by slaying my betrothed, whom I loved most tenderly!

"Yes, I loved him with the love of infancy, which changed in advancing years to a sentiment more soft than friendship, but more tranquil than love.

"What is my life now? Horrible, horrible! with every appearance of happiness, if wealth be happiness! For ever linked to a man who so often, alas! compels me to regret the fate of Raphael!

"Poor Raphael, to die so young! Alas! in provoking M. de Brévannes, he yielded to a feeling of just and courageous despair; and yet his murderer, on his side, and not unreasonably, invoked the right of legitimate defence.

"It is true, Raphael no longer suffers, but I suffer daily; every instant of my life is a punishment! What can I do?

"Resign myself.

"To rouse me from my painful apathy, it required that I should again see the man who has caused me so much misery.

"How strange! I felt wholly different from what I had expected, what I ought, I think, to have felt, at the sight of him. Yes, I confess it with horror (who will ever know this avowal?), my anger, my indignation, do not seem to be commensurate with his crimes.

"In vain do I curse my weakness; in vain do I say to myself that this man has calumniated me in an infamous manner; in vain do I repeat to myself that he has slain Raphael, that he is almost the author of the ills I endure, that he can at this moment ruin me. In spite of myself I have the baseness to believe that it is the love with which I have inspired him which has plunged him into this abyss of horrible actions. Dare I add, that sometimes I am capable of excusing him?"

De Brévannes felt his heart beat violently; his unchecked pride, the blindness of his passion, served Iris even beyond her hope.

Nothing is more vulgar, more antiquated, yet more true than the adage, "_We believe what we desire._"

In these pages, which he believed were written by Madame de Hansfeld, M. de Brévannes beheld the proof of an impression which was composed of hatred and love, affright and admiration.

Admiration scarcely avowed, it is true, but which, as De Brévannes' vanity suggested, was but love unsuspected or resisted.

A fact very strange, but very skilfully handled by Iris, contributed to increase the error of M. de Brévannes. He had only made a declaration once to Paula, and from the fragment we have quoted, he might believe that she had not responded to his passion through jealousy of the apparent attentions which he paid to her aunt; and thus he might also believe that his infamous calumny, if not forgotten, was at least almost excused by the feigned words of the princess.

"It is the love with which I have inspired him which has plunged him into this abyss of horrible actions. Dare I add, that sometimes I am capable of excusing him?"

As to the death of Raphael, whom Paula loved with a feeling "_more soft than friendship, but more tranquil than love_," this murder, almost justified by the attack of this unfortunate young man, was, it is true, one of the causes which most forcibly resisted the irresistible inclination of Madame de Hansfeld for M. de Brévannes.

Without the authority of the black book, it then must have been a complete blindness to explain thus the conduct of Madame de Hansfeld; but M. de Brévannes, believing that he perused writing traced by her, had too much pride and love not to adopt at once this interpretation, which was so extremely natural.

Why should De Brévannes mistrust Iris? Why should he have believed her capable of so strange a deception? As to the princess, for what purpose should she have written these pages, which she never could suppose would be submitted to any other eye than her own?

Supposing, too, that on an understanding with Iris, she had authorised this communication in order to persuade M. de Brévannes that her wrongs were effaced by love, such a thing could only flatter him.

We may thus easily comprehend that he continued the reading of the black book with increasing hope and interest.

"What can this man want? He has contrived to have an interview with Iris--poor ingenuous girl!--and has proposed to her to convey a letter to me, which she refused. What can he wish? What audacity! How can he support even my look?

"The man is mad! What has he to say to me? Can he think to excuse his conduct? But I......

"Yesterday I could not proceed: I was interrupted by my husband's arrival.

"The prince has, then, all his life studied the effects of grief in order to aim his blows more surely. He is a monster! His refinements of torture are unheard of. Oh, now I understand why I do not hate M. de Brévannes sufficiently: all my hatred is employed against my torturer.

"And to be for life--for life, linked to this man! To be unable to break this chain, so odious, except by death!

"Then let it strike me, let it strike me speedily, since one of us must die in order to break this horrible union; let it be me rather than my husband."

M. de Brévannes shuddered at these words, and exclaimed, as he addressed Iris,--

"Is the princess, then, very unhappy?"

"Very unhappy!" replied Iris, gloomily.

"Her husband is without sympathy for her?"

"Quite so."

De Brévannes continued reading:--

"Yes, yes--death! I do not deserve to live; I have been faithless to the memory of Raphael; I do not deserve any commiseration. If my husband is a monster of cruelty, what, then, am I, who cannot turn away my thoughts from the man who has caused all my evils by killing my betrothed?

"Oh, I am ashamed of myself. I must note down these horrible things, that I may see them, then, in substance, under my eyes, in order to believe them possible.

"To reach, oh, heavens! so low a depth of abasement!

"Is it my fault, too? Grief depraves so much. Yes, it depraves, renders criminal; for, sometimes weighed down by despair, I exclaim, 'Since it was written in M. de Brévannes' destiny that he should be a murderer, why did not fate, instead of giving up Raphael to his blows, place my tormentor in his way?'"

Here the pages ended.

Iris had no doubt wished to leave M. de Brévannes to reflect, at his leisure, on this homicidal wish.

He exclaimed, as he shut the book suddenly,--

"Iris, have you read nothing of what is written here?"

The young girl appeared not to have heard these words, but looked steadfastly at him.

"Iris," he repeated, "you have not read these pages?"

"No, no," she said, starting from her reverie; "what is the book to me?"

"She thinks of nothing but me," he thought; "there is nothing to fear from her indiscretion."

He locked the book again, and handed it to the young girl, saying to her,--

"You have, without knowing it, done a most material service to your mistress."

"You love her?" asked Iris abruptly, and casting a piercing glance at him.

"I!" said De Brévannes, with the most careless air in the world; "a singular proof of love, truly, to cruelly menace the woman one loves! No, no, I have no love for her; nothing but the most intense friendship could make a man have recourse to such extremities."

"I must believe you," said Iris sorrowfully, as she took the book from him.

"Adieu, Iris, until to-morrow," said M. de Brévannes; "you will remind Madame de Hansfeld of the interview she has promised me."

"She will not fail; but, now I reflect, in Heaven's name, let nothing give her a suspicion that you have read this book, or I am lost!"

"Make yourself easy, my dear Iris; I will be as far from knowing that as her most secret thoughts: nothing shall betray my knowledge of it; only promise to bring me this book once more, as it will be of the utmost importance that I should again peruse it after the interview I am to have with your mistress to-morrow. Promise me this."

"What! do wrong again?--again abuse her confidence? Ah! now I have no right to complain other injustice to me."

"Iris, I entreat you!"

"You ask it, and is not that more than a command for me?"

In his gratitude, De Brévannes took hold of Iris's hand, and drawing her towards him, would have kissed her brow, but the young girl repulsed him violently and proudly, to his great surprise, as he imagined he should be giving her the utmost pleasure in acting with such condescension. When she reached the Quai, Iris flung into the river the ring she had received as the reward of her treachery.

After his attentive perusal of the black book, De Brévannes fell into a deep reverie. He could not doubt but he was beloved by Madame de Hansfeld, who struggled with all her power against the involuntary inclination.

Her husband rendered her so miserable, that she went so far as sometimes to desire his death.

Although this wish appeared to him somewhat exaggerated, De Brévannes considered all these circumstances as favourable to him, and awaited with intense anxiety the moment of the meeting which Madame de Hansfeld had appointed for the next day in the _Jardin des Plantes._